


too much of a good thing

by princesskay



Series: in your eyes [1]
Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Post-Season/Series 02, Praise Kink, Sharing a Bed, Unrequited Lust, or is it???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23965114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: When Bill and Holden are both invited to the annual director's retreat, Bill puts the task of rubbing shoulders and getting facetime with the director on Holden - but he has no idea what the praise and attention is doing to Holden.
Relationships: Holden Ford/Bill Tench
Series: in your eyes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748365
Comments: 4
Kudos: 109





	too much of a good thing

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this prompt from anonymous on tumblr: (established or not!) bill x holden where bill show ponies holden at some work party. arm slung around him, gently but firmly manhandling him in front of everyone. poor holden gets so aroused. Thanks for the inspo!

The radiant, late afternoon sunlight reflecting off the rolling green hills surrounding the Stoneridge Resort and spilling through the window of their room should have been serene and relaxing, but Holden’s stomach is in knots. Reclining against the pillows, he tries to concentrate on the notebook pressed to his raised knees where he’s written out his speech in neat print. The scribbled drafts are scattered on the bedspread beside him, the product of his racing, unfocused thoughts. 

Bill is out on the green with Director Webster and all the other bigwigs right now, undoubtedly giving every single pompous, stuffed-suit a run for their money. Holden had respectfully declined, saying he wanted to work on the speech he’s supposed to give later on. 

This year, he’d received his first invitation to the annual retreat. Due to the number of high profile cases they’ve closed, the director had been kind enough to extend the honor to both him and Bill this year. Though he’s proud, the butterflies in his belly won’t subside, and it isn’t just about the imminent public speaking assignment. 

Bill had teased him that it was going to be like the old days of road school when they used to share hotel rooms. Holden agreed, with far less amusement. 

It used to be that he would wake up every morning, sometimes in a shared hotel room, and immediately run himself through the pep talk:  _ I don’t like him in that way or want him. We’re co-workers. That kind of thinking is crazy. I don’t like him. I don’t like him. I don’t like him.  _ He’d said it to himself so many times that it was almost a daily ritual, but recently, they’ve been so busy with work that he hasn’t needed to force himself to not think about Bill in any way except within the professional boundaries of their relationship. In fact, the distance had given him enough undue confidence to believe that his once lurid attraction hadn’t existed at all - until this week.

Being tucked back into a shared hotel room with Bill far from home regurgitated every repressed desire he’d ever had. And Bill, confident and relaxed in his heterosexual masculinity, has no problem walking around the hotel room in his underwear or a towel after a shower. He has no problem touching Holden, putting his arm around him, making Holden’s self-control tremble like a splintering matchstick. 

Holden blinks when a chattering bird just outside the window interrupts the languid stream of his daydreams. Sitting upright on the bed, he casts his notebook aside with a frustrated groan. His belly churns through warm and quivering revolutions, and he’s half-hard against his trousers. But he doesn’t masturbate, or even think about it. He never does because that would give his denial too much leeway. 

By the time Bill gets back from the golf course, Holden has refocused his mind on the speech. He glances up with a casual smile when Bill comes through the door with his clubs over his shoulder and his face glistening with sun-drenched perspiration. 

“Hey, how was it?” Holden asks. 

“Great.” Bill says, dropping his clubs by the door, and retrieving a bottle of water from the minifridge. 

“Did you win?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to brag about it.”

Holden’s smirk quickly dies as Bill takes a drink of the water, his chin tilting back to expose the gleaming length of his throat constricting around the thirsty gulps. Turning his eyes back to his notebook, he taps his pen against the page. 

“Do you think I should try to be funny?” He asks. 

Bill pulls the bottle away from his mouth, stifling a chuckle. “Is that a serious question?”

“Come on, help me out here.” Holden says, sitting up and crossing his legs Indian-style. “You know how to interact with the director and the brass better than I do.”

“Well, I don’t think you should try to do something that isn’t genuine.” 

“I can be funny.”

“You wanna tell a knock-knock joke?”

“Not like that.” Holden says, scowling. “God, you’re useless.”

“Okay, fine.” Bill says, sauntering across the room to sit down on the other side of the bed. “Give it to me.”

Holden hands over the notebook, and braces his elbows against his knees and his knuckles under his chin. His mind immediately veers off course from the particulars of the speech as Bill swings his legs up onto the bed, and leans back against the pillows with a sigh. The sunlight slanting past the curtains makes the sweat on his chest just above the undone buttons of his polo gleam. 

Biting his lower lip, Holden glances away.  _ I don’t like him, and I don’t want him.  _ The mantra isn’t working the way it used to.

“Okay, here’s my advice.” Bill says, after finishing the speech. “You need to cut this in half.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, you’re making it way too complicated.” Bill says, handing the notebook over. “And philosophical.”

“This was my watered down version.”

Bill’s mouth tilts into an amused smirk. “You’re hopeless.”

Holden grabs the notebook, and dejectedly scans the words. “Don’t they care about the work that we do?”

“Yeah, in terms of their job. But we’re not working, we’re at a retreat.” Bill says, spreading his hands to indicate the hotel. “It’s a mini-vacation, not a think tank.”

“Right.” Holden says, exhaling a sigh. “Tell me again why we decided I should speak and not you?”

“Because, I spoke last year. I’ve done my duty. This year, I’m playing golf, drinking a lot of good liquor, and enjoying the time off.”

“Oh, so I’m the show pony now?”

“That’s right, you are.” Bill says, his expression softening from self-satisfied amusement to a coy tease. “It’s time to show them what you’ve got.”

Holden purses his lips, feeling his belly warm beneath Bill’s appreciative gaze. He tells himself that Bill didn’t intend it that way, but Holden feels like that look is undressing him, peeling back layers of hampering fabric to expose all his wanton needs. For a few terrifying seconds, he can’t breathe, and he can feel the heat crawling up his chest and to his face. Then, Bill shatters the moment by clearing his throat and getting up from the bed. 

“I’m gonna hit the shower before we have to get back down there.” He says, “I want to see that speech be under five minutes when I come back.”

“Okay.” Holden mumbles.

He watches as Bill gathers a change of clothes from his suitcase, and disappears into the bathroom. When the door falls shut behind him, Holden falls over onto his side against the pillows with a muted groan. He squeezes his eyes shut, and repeats his mantra; but in his head, it just sounds like white noise. 

~

With a great deal of effort, Holden whittles down his speech to Bill’s approval. His stomach is swarming with butterflies while they get ready to go down for his speech and dinner. They’ll be gone for the rest of the night since they’re having live music and drinks post-dinner in the rec hall. 

Holden vacillates between two different ties to go with the slate gray suit he’d chosen to wear. Bill had told him not to wear black because it makes him look too rigid. Tonight, they’re not Feds; they’re just a group of men looking to have a good time and promote their department. 

“Wear the blue.” Bill says, coming up behind him in the mirror.

“You think?” Holden asks, holding both ties up to his chest. 

“Yeah. You look better in blue.”

“I do?”

Bill gives him a pat on the back. “Yep.”

Holden drops the forest green tie back into his suitcase, and ties the blue one around his neck. 

Downstairs in the dining room, Holden takes the podium after two other department members. The guy ahead of him told a few jokes, and Holden is quietly relieved Bill had curtailed his own attempt at being funny. He never would have pulled it off the way the previous speaker had. 

Bill squeezes his shoulder encouragingly as Holden prepares to take the podium. He walks up in front of everyone with that touch still lingering, burning through the starched fabric of his jacket and shirt and into his skin. Under the glare of the light, he scans the crowd while he launches into the speech. The anxious writhing in his belly calms down slightly when he sees Bill leaning back in his chair, arms loosely crossed, mouth set in a proud smile. 

Later, as they’re eating dinner, Director Webster himself comes over to their table. 

“Agent Ford, is it?” He asks, extending a hand. 

“Yes, sir.” Holden says, returning the firm grasp. “Wonderful to meet you.”

“You as well.” Webster says, “I’ve heard a lot about you from your partner here. Last year, Bill had nothing good things to say, and it looks like you’ve lived up to the expectations.”

“I, uh … thank you, sir.” Holden stammers, casting Bill a quick glance. 

Bill is faintly smiling, unperturbed at being exposed for praising Holden in his absence. 

“I liked what you said in your speech. How do we get ahead of crazy if we don’t know how crazy thinks?” Webster says. 

“Well, actually Bill said that.” Holden says, “I just used it in my speech.”

“Yeah, but Holden, here, is the one who put it into practice.” Bill says, putting an arm around Holden’s shoulders and giving him in a squeeze. 

Holden instinctively stiffens as Bill’s arm settles around him. The grip is warm and strong, giving him no choice but to lean into it. He wonders if Webster can see the heat radiating up his throat and cheeks, but prays the dim lighting and haze of cigarette and cigar smoke can shield off its intensity. 

“Well, I like your thinking. Both of you.” Webster says, “Your profiling department has exceeded all my expectations. I’d love to hear more about some cases after dinner.”

“Oh, we’ve got plenty of stories.” Bill says, jostling Holden gently. “Don’t we?”

“Yes.” Holden whispers. 

“Wonderful. I’ll let you two get back to your dinner.” Webster says. 

As he walks away, Bill’s arm retreats from around Holden’s shoulders, and Holden leans forward to brace his elbows against the table. Underneath the tablecloth, his groin gives a shallow, unmistakable throb, and he feels slightly light-headed - dizzy with contact and praise that he hadn’t realized he was so hungry for. 

After dinner, the group moves over to the recreational hall of the resort where the live band is plunging into their first song. A bar along the left wall provides a varied assortment of spirits, any kind of drink that one could think to ask for, and the table along the other wall proffers several different desserts. While the band covers Billy Joel and the Beatles, the room clusters off into groups of agents and department heads rubbing shoulders and angling for an audience with the brass.

Bill and Holden grab drinks from the bar before Bill pinpoints Webster and a group of other high rolling officials from across the room. 

“If you’re trying to impress a group of people, that’s it.” Bill says, taking a sip of his whiskey.

“I’m not very good at these things - embellishing our work.” Holden says.

“It’s not embellishment. It’s just telling it in a way that isn’t boring as hell.” Bill says, slipping a hand against the middle of Holden’s back. “Come on, show pony. Time to get to work.”

Holden blushes, but has no choice but to follow his lead as Bill guides him past the other groups of retreat attendees and through the haze of cigar smoke until they reach the group of men surrounding Webster. 

“Oh, Bill, do join us.” Webster says, waving him in. “Gentlemen, Special Agent Bill Tench - the man who properly tanned my hide on the golf course this morning.”

“You play a mean game, sir.” Bill says, shaking his hand. 

“Not mean enough, apparently.” Webster says. He turns to the other three men in the group, “Bill, I’d like you to meet George Sherrod, my Deputy Director, Bernard Forrestor, Chief of Staff, and our newest addition to the New York field office, his son and SAC Frank Forrestor.”

“Great to meet you.” Bill says, shaking each man’s hand. His other arm tightens around Holden, palm sliding deftly along the shoulder blade until it grasps Holden’s shoulder and pulls him forward. “This is my partner, Holden Ford.”

Holden quickly wipes his palm on his pant leg before shaking each man’s hand. He’s standing beside three of the highest ranking men in the Bureau, but it isn’t the stench of brass and opportunity that’s making him wither. Tucked under Bill’s arm, he feels every bit the show pony that he’d had the misfortune of labeling himself as - maybe not just a show pony, but a purebred, designer puppy cradled in his handler’s confident grasp. 

“I heard you have some stories to share.” Webster says, looking directly at Holden. 

Holden stares back at him, his mind suddenly blanking. “I, um-”

“I think Holden has one that’ll knock your socks off - at least it knocked the socks off the Marin County Police Department out in San Francisco.” Bill says, jostling Holden good-naturedly. 

“San Francisco …” George Sherrod says, his eyes narrowing. “The Trailside Killer?”

“You got him.” Bill says, jabbing a finger at Sherrod while still clutching his drink. “C’mon Holden, tell them what you told the locals.”

“I, um …” Holden says, clearing his throat. “I told them the killer would likely have a stutter.”

All four men gaze at him in rapt attention. When he doesn’t elaborate, the elder Forrester leans closer. “Well, did he?”

“You bet he did.” Bill says, “A severe stutter. Holden was right on the money.”

“Holy shit.” Frank Forrester says, chuckling into his whiskey glass. “I’ve heard about this kind of stuff. Like that guy who predicted the killer would be wearing a double-breasted suit, buttoned. It’s like you can read minds.”

“Well, that was in the 50’s with Dr. Brussell and the Mad Bomber, long before our version of profiling, but the basic concept is similar. It’s not exactly mind reading, it’s more like-”

“So, how did you catch him?” Sherrod asks, hardly bothered by the details. “Did you get to talk to him, ask him why he did it?”

“Yeah, was it because of the stutter?” Frank asks. 

“Well, yes and no. When we’re called in on a case, the first thing I do is look at the pictures from the crime scene. Everything there tells me what I need to know about the intentions of the person that did it, and the type of behavior they’re going to display in everyday life.” 

“Incredible.” Webster says, “Tell us everything.” 

Bill gives Holden a firm pat on the chest. “I think you’ve got this.”

“Yeah, I uh-” Holden says, glancing up sharply when Bill’s arm leaves his shoulders. “Where are you going?”

“Take a piss.” Bill says, backing into the crowd. “I’ll be back.”

Holden turns back to the group of attentive faces awaiting the complete story of the Trailside Killer and his deadly stutter. He can still feel the ghost impression of Bill’s hands on him, the lingering warmth in his belly that injects with every little praise that Bill showers on him. He launches into the story, trying to remember Bill’s advice. The truth, but not in a way that’s boring as hell. He quietly wishes Bill would come back sooner rather than later. 

~

Holden spends more than an hour and a half on his own, talking with Webster and his cohorts about the Trailside Killer and a few other cases. He keeps scanning the crowd for Bill and manages to pick him out of the sea of faces a few times, but he keeps moving from group to group. He makes it look easy while Holden second-guesses every word that comes out of his mouth, whether it’s relaxed enough, or casual enough, or friendly enough. He thought he would have lost Webster’s interest long ago, but the director stays until someone suggests a game of poker, yet another activity, just like the golf course, that Holden would be out of his depth in.

He hangs back while they quickly organize around one of the round tables. Bill had already secured a spot, and he has what looks to be his third or fourth glass of whiskey in his hand. He’s laughing easily, his cheeks alcohol-flushed, his eyes slightly unfocused and glazed. He leans over to nudge the man beside him and mutter something under his breath, and Holden feels a surprising twinge of jealousy twist his belly. 

Horrified with himself, Holden leaves the fringes of the poker game to retrieve another glass of bourbon from the bar. He keeps to himself for another forty-five minutes until a lady in a pin-striped pantsuit slides onto the bar stool beside him. 

She asks for a gin and tonic from the bartender before turning to him. 

“You’re the guy who predicted a stutter, aren’t you?”

Holden opens his mouth to ask how that story already proliferated so quickly around the resort, but he nearly stops breathing when a pair of hands seize his shoulders from behind. 

“You’re looking at him. Holden Ford. The one and only.” Bill’s voice is low and raspy just a few inches behind his ear, breath hot and tinged with alcohol. 

Holden turns around, shuddering as Bill’s arm slips back into place over his shoulder as if it finds that spot most comfortable tonight. 

“Bill, you’re back.”

“Listen,” Bill says, holding up a wavering finger, “There is a fine line between having pride in beating the director at golf  _ and  _ poker, and just plain pissing him off.” 

Holden hesitantly glances up at Bill to see his eyes all hazy and drooping. 

“You’re really drunk.” Holden whispers.

“Yeah, and it’s all on the director’s dime. You should at least try to enjoy yourself.”

Holden swallows hard as Bill’s arm locks around his neck while the other hand tugs loose the stiff knot in his tie. 

“Christ, you’re tense. Would you relax?” Bill says, his hand lingering on Holden’s chest.

“I told you I’m not good at these things.”

“You want another one of those?” Bill asks, nodding at the nearly empty glass of bourbon in front of Holden. 

“No, I’m good. I don’t think you should have anymore either.”

“You cutting me off?”

“Yes.” 

Bill sighs, his weight leaning into Holden’s shoulder. “Probably for the best. I can feel the hangover coming on already.”

“You want to go back to our room?” 

Bill checks his watch. “Slipping out of the race early, show pony?”

“Would you stop calling me that?” Holden whispers, his face growing hot again.

Bill’s mouth tips in a lazy smirk. “Sure. I think you did your duty for the day.”

“Great. Let’s go.” Holden says, rising from the barstool. 

The lady on the stool next to him appears disappointed as he leaves the bar with Bill draped against his shoulders, but Holden focuses on leading them out of the rec hall so that he doesn’t have to consider those implications. 

Bill clings to his shoulder as they shuffle down the hall to the staircase leading up to the rooms. Holden tentatively reaches up to grasp his wrist, telling himself he’s simply doing it to steady Bill should he drunkenly stumble to the ground. 

Climbing the stairs is slow progress, but Holden doesn’t complain as Bill leans into him, his body warm with alcohol flushed veins. He’s lightly sweating, his perspiration tangy against the dense scent of alcohol wafting from his quietly panting lips. Holden wraps his other arm around Bill’s waist as they reach the midway point of the stairs. 

Bill pauses, his forehead leaning drowsily against Holden’s temple. His breath spills hotly down Holden’s cheek. 

“Well, this is fucking pathetic isn’t it?” He whispers, chuckling deliriously. “It’s barely ten-thirty, and I’m tapped out. Why aren’t you tapped out?”

“Because, I didn’t raid the bar like a maniac.” Holden says, “Come on, let’s keep walking.”

His veins hum with satisfaction as they make slow progress down the hallway, bodies weaving back and forth against one another. When they reach their room, Holden lets go of Bill’s wrist to reach into his pocket for the key. 

Bill leans against him, breathing heavily against his neck. The sensation wanders below Holden’s collar to singe his already racing pulse. He wonders if Bill will remember clinging onto him this closely in the morning, or if it will all be a drunken blur. At what point did all the copious touching and grasping that he’d done tonight shift from intentional to improper and inebriated? As Holden lets them into their room, he realizes he doesn’t care; he just likes how it feels, and maybe alcohol didn’t fabricate the affection so much as it unfettered it from Bill’s usual professional reticence. 

As they stagger across the room in the darkness, Holden murmurs, “So, was I a good enough show pony tonight?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to call you that.”

“I’m just asking. I know these retreats are important even if they are vacation.”

“Well, you got plenty of facetime with the director. That’s always good.”

“I’m not a storyteller like you are.”

“No, you’re a fucking anomaly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Holden asks, frowning as they reach the edge of Bill’s bed. 

Bill wavers as he leans back, grasping Holden’s shoulders. His eyes are glassy, murky blue in the pale moonlight streaking past the curtains.

“Nothing bad. It means there’s no one else like you. I think they were impressed.”

Holden smiles, relief and satisfaction tumbling through his veins. His melted nerves only get a short reprieve, however, as Bill sinks toward the bed, and drags Holden down with him. 

“Oh!” Holden chokes out as they fall to the mattress. “Are you okay?”

“Tired.” Bill mumbles. 

“Bill, I don’t know if-”

“Shh…calm down.” Bill whispers, curling an arm across Holden’s chest to pin him down against the sheets. “I told you to relax.”

Holden tries once more to move, but Bill seems intent on keeping him still. He reaches across Holden’s chest to grip his shoulder, effectively cutting off any escape route. With a heavy sigh, he tucks his forehead against Holden’s shoulder, seeming to immediately drift off into slumber. 

Holden lays still for several long minutes, listening to his heart beat stammer against his ribs, feeling his veins race with exhilaration, letting the warm weight of Bill’s body curled against his side sink in. When the initial burst of anxiety passes, he realizes his belly is churning with that familiar, clenching heat that he’s tried so hard to smother. 

He presses his eyes shut.  _ Stop. Just get up. He’s dead asleep, and he won’t even notice.  _ But the realization that Bill is passed out cold doesn’t make him want to move - it niggles with another suggestion in the back of his mind, this one far more dangerous and lewd. 

Holden carefully lifts his head from sheets to peer through the darkness at his crotch where his trousers are straining with a swelling erection. A groan rushes at the back of his throat, and he bites at his lower lip to silence it. Letting his head drop back against the bedspread again, he fights the compelling desire that he’s been holding at bay all evening coiling tightly around his aching cock.

Turning his head to one side, Holden can smell Bill's hair and lingering aftershave beneath the sheen of sweat. He smells deeply primal and masculine, raw with perspiration and cigarette smoke glazed over with whiskey and spicy aftershave, and Holden wants to bury his face in it, breathe it in until he can’t remember any other smell but this one; and he wants Bill to not be so drunk and asleep, his hands moving against Holden’s body in the darkness, grasping firmly the way they had at his shoulder, but in other places, too - private places that he’s never let another man touch. He can imagine that Bill’s hands would be strong and calloused but gentle, both of them skilled and deliberate. If he did touch Holden, there would be no languishing foreplay or hesitation marks; it would be all teeth and nails, coarse with his hunger, persistent with his needs. His electric virility would overpower Holden in an instant, turning him weak and helpless and hard in his hands. Then, it wouldn’t just be the smell of him invading Holden’s thoughts - it would be his taste, the friction of his hands, the humid dampness between lips and teeth, the hard, blunt shape of his cock-

Holden’s eyes spring open to the darkness as he realizes just how far beyond his control his thoughts have spun. The entire core of his body clenches with surging pulses of need that have him so hard against his trousers he feels like he could explode from within the restrictive confines. 

Beyond his anxiety, Holden reaches down to carefully slide his belt buckle open. The metal teeth click against one another in the silence, but Bill doesn’t stir. His breaths are heavy and cadenced, unbroken, as Holden eases the button of his trousers open. 

Pressing his eyes shut, Holden barely breathes as he finds the small, brass lip of the zipper and gingerly tugs on it. The muted grinding sound might as well have been a bomb going off to his frayed nerves, but he gets it all the way down without Bill so much as moving against him; in fact, Bill’s weight seems to grow heavier as he sinks into drunken slumber, his breath searing hot against Holden’s neck where his pulse is pounding wildly.

Tentatively, Holden stretches shivering fingers down to touch the hard swell of his erection still contained by his underwear, and clamps his jaw shut against the resulting moan of desperation. He’s so hard that the mere graze of his fingers, shielded by cotton, is enough to set off a ripple of tingles that end with a violent clench of muscles. He can all but feel his balls tightening up, threatening to release the pent-up contents of the last few days of aroused torture in an instant.

Trying to steady his breathing, Holden withdraws his hand, and pushes aside the hem of his shirt to find the waistband. The brush of his touch against his belly encourages the swimming, pulsing need, and he can’t hold back any longer. Pushing his hand beneath the underwear, he grasps at his bare, throbbing cock with trembling fingers.

A cry lunges at the back of his throat, and he purses his lips against it until he feels a strained vein at his temple begin to a throb. His mind is screaming a series of elated, intensely aroused curses, but he stays completely silent. The only sound is the internalized thunder in his ears, his blood surging with exhilarated need. 

Gingerly curling his fingers around his cock, he gives himself a tentative stroke. His hips stiffen at the sharp burst of arousal that cuts through him. Orgasm hedges at the corners of his consciousness, a glow of blinding white that threatens to crush him; and he’s inching himself eagerly, stupidly closer to it with Bill curled at his side, blissfully unaware. 

Holden glances down, making out Bill’s face in the darkness. His eyes are shut, and his mouth his half-open in deep sleep.

_ He has no idea what he’s doing to Holden _ . That infuriating revelation only encourages the need cresting in the back of Holden’s mind and coiling tightly around his groin. 

Shifting his gaze back to the ceiling, Holden thinks about that moment when Webster had shown up at the dinner table and Bill had drawn him close.  _ Nothing but good things to say. You’ve lived up to my expectations. We have stories, don’t we?  _ And then squeeze of Bill’s arm, the ripple of his bicep against Holden’s neck, the heat of his body. 

Holden begins to whimper before he stops himself with his teeth around his lower lip. Trying not to move too jaggedly, he pulls on his cock a little faster. The muted pleasuring draws the arousal gradually, torturously to the forefront until he’s digging his heels into the mattress to stop his agonized writhing. 

Uncontrollable, the fresh memories repeat across the back of his mind. Bill showing him off to Webster and his cohorts, arm around his shoulders, hand on his chest. Bill returning from the poker game, drunk and frisky.  _ Holden Ford. The one and only.  _ His hand, pulling Holden’s tie loose, threatening to pull everything loose.

A cry clumps at the back of his throat, threatening to burst free. The intense arousal and inadequate stroking is almost too much to bear, but he can’t stop and he can’t move faster for fear of waking Bill. Instead, he lays utterly still except for the slight jerking of his hand until a few aching and miserable minutes later, he starts to come with a vicious spasm. 

His mouth stretches open in pleasured awe as the first wave of orgasm sweeps through him, but he quickly clamps his jaw shut against the strangled moan climbing his throat. Turning his face away from Bill’s, Holden squeezes his eyes shut as his body trembles, and he ejaculates in wet, copious bursts inside his underwear. The spasms surge through him repeatedly, dragging him through the peak of pleasure where he suffocates and shivers, trying desperately not to move or make a sound.

His hips give out only a few weak shudders through the entirety of the climax, and the only noise he makes is his hastened breaths through his nostrils. As the pleasure retreats, his limp, humming body relaxes against the sheets. His hand is loosely tucked in his underwear, dripping with release while the rest absorbs into the cotton. Breathing slowing down, he eases back down from the euphoric, reckless clouds of pleasure to realize what he’s done. 

Humiliated heat and panic rush up through Holden’s belly and chest to scorch his cheeks. Paralyzed by horror, he lays perfectly still with his hand shoved in his underwear like a horny teenager who can’t fucking control his own libido. And Bill - he’s still dead asleep, body cradled contentedly at Holden’s side. 

_ Jesus Fucking Christ.  _

Holden doesn’t move for a long time. The release in his underwear cools and dries. The cotton is still damp, and will take awhile to harden. He should get up and clean himself off, but the thought that Bill could wake up and catch him with his trousers undone is too mortifying to imagine. 

Withdrawing his hand from his underwear, Holden clenches his jaw against the soggy sensation as he zips his pants. He doesn’t know what else he should do. Bill is laying halfway on top of him, arm wrapped possessively across his chest, and despite what he’s just done, he doesn’t want to escape an embrace that Bill never would have allowed had he been sober. This humiliating little foray into sexual indecency might be all that Holden ever gets from him. 

Holden spends another ten minutes trying to decide what he should do. In the meantime, his pleasured, satisfied body goes limp and warm against Bill’s body heat and clinging embrace. His tired eyes slip shut, and his wandering thoughts lose direction and consistency. While his blood slows and his body hums in satisfied aftermath, he unwittingly tumbles into dreamland. 

~

Holden wakes up the next morning to sunlight and warmth. He’s curled up on his side facing the window, but he can feel pressure at his back, the heat of someone else’s body lying close to his own. As his eyelids flutter open to orient to his surroundings, the first thing he sees is the empty bed across the room that he’d slept in for the past few nights. The sheets are still pulled tightly and neatly across the mattress. 

The memories come back in and rush, his brief moment of rested contentment slashed to tatters by the fist of dread and humiliation punching him in the stomach. A cold wash of horror ripples down his spine as his gaze swings down his hand lying limply against the bedspread, fingers dusted faintly white with dried release. 

Barely breathing, he turns to peek over his shoulder. 

Bill had rolled onto his back sometime in the night, but his shoulder is tucked against Holden’s spine. His hand is splayed across the front of his rumpled shirt and tie while his legs are spread out to take up most of the bed. 

Holden’s stomach drops. He hadn’t dreamed last night. It was all real. 

Mind racing with panic, he pushes his elbow under himself, and drops his legs over the side of the bed. The springs squeak with his movement, nudging Bill to stir. 

Holden freezes on the edge of the mattress as Bill makes a raspy noise from the back of his throat, and rolls over toward the retreating warmth of Holden’s body. His hand drops against the mattress where Holden had once been laying, curling at empty bedsheets until his eyelids creep open. Squinting against the daylight, he looks up at Holden with half-shut, confused eyes glistening with a bloodshot hangover. 

They stare at one another in silence for a long moment before Bill slowly pushes his elbow under himself. He groans, clutching a hand over his forehead. 

“Fuck.” He mutters.

“I’ll get you some water.” Holden says, grabbing onto the excuse to put some distance between them. 

Clutching his soiled hand into a fist at his side, he pulls open the minifridge, and grabs a bottled water with his other hand. He kicks the door shut, and tosses the bottle to Bill. 

Bill catches it against his chest, muttering, “Thanks.”

As he pushes himself upright and cracks open the water bottle, Holden busies himself searching his suitcase for a change of clothes. 

“I’m getting a shower quick before breakfast.”

“Okay.” Bill mutters. 

As Holden rushes for the bathroom, he drags his hand away from his eyes, and casts Holden a bemused gaze. 

“Hey, Holden.”

“Yeah?” Holden asks, pausing in the doorway of the bathroom with his clothes clutched in his arms. 

“I didn’t make too much of a fool of myself last night, did I?”

“Well, you beat Director Webster at poker.” Holden says, “But, I can’t really say because you stranded me almost as soon as we got there.”

“I remember that part.” Bill says, tartly. “And you did fine on your own, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Holden says, lowering his eyes.  _ Fine.  _ He wonders if Bill remembers calling him a “fucking anomaly,” but it’s probably best not to get too close to what happened right after they tumbled into bed. 

“Anyway, I should probably thank you for cutting me off.” Bill says, uttering a sigh. “It’s just …”

“What?” Holden asks, unable to quell his curiosity as Bill’s voice softens. 

“I haven’t had a break like this in awhile.” Bill says, “It felt good to let loose a little bit, but … you know, too much of a good thing is a bad thing.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Bill nods, his pinched gaze drifting away. He takes another drink of the water, and winces softly. 

“Okay.” Holden says, retreating into the bathroom. “I’ll save some hot water for you.”

He doesn’t wait to hear Bill’s reply before he pushes the door shut. He didn’t want to say out loud that he knows exactly what Bill means, that Bill himself is too much of a good thing, that Holden can’t stop pursuing the thought of him until it becomes decidedly bad - not just one night of revelry, but a hangover that won’t pass; and just like any addict, Holden doesn’t know how long he can hide his problem until it becomes readily apparent and undeniable. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm [prinxcesskayy](https://prinxcesskayy.tumblr.com//) on Tumblr!


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